Coyne Collection
by Allison Lindsay
Summary: "I am so in love with you, it's not even funny." Imogen hears it before she says it: delicate, decisive, definitive. The words barely hover before they cover Fiona's heart, and Imogen delights in her girlfriend's reaction.
1. Chapter 1

Coyne Collection

by

Allison Lindsay

* * *

Disclaimer: In the words of Ricky Ricardo, "I am not the father of that cheese." Loosely translated, that means I don't own _Degrassi_. Phooey.

Pairing: Immy + Fiones, obvi!

Author's note: This is my first fic for _Degrassi_ since my Palex piece from '06. It's good to be back on the write track. Please enjoy.

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1.

* * *

"Speeeeed it up a little!"

_My thoughts exactly_, Imogen Moreno muses as the conveyor belt whips across the screen, sending nude nuggets of chocolate zipping past a panicky redhead and her hapless sidekick. As much as she loves this scene in this show that her father introduced her to, her thoughts are on Fiona Coyne. At Imogen's request, the two have been taking things slow. Super slow. Like a carousel. Only slower. And Imogen isn't quite sure how to… accelerate things.

She's considered her options, among them such erotic euphemisms as:

_This relationship tastes like apple juice. _

To which Fiona replies:

_I know what you mean. It's too mild and wholesome. Personally, I prefer apple cider._

Which progresses to Imogen purring:

_Mmm. Spicy and piping hot. Now you're talking._

Imogen plucks the lollipop out of her mouth and exhales, her breath coming out in a slow, sugary wisp. She studies the space between them, where her left hand is beside Fiona's, their little fingers linked in a perpetual pinkie-promise.

She gazes at her leading lady. The girl who makes her heart bang out "Babalu." The girl she wants to wrestle with in a vat of grapes. Or a bed of roses.

It began the afternoon she'd talked Fiona out of watching movies that have Olivia Wilde (because even though her girl's gone Wilde, that doesn't mean Imogen has to follow suit). Fiona made a monkey out of Imogen and, upon being instructed to retract that unfair statement, responded: "Or what?"

An outburst of silence followed, during which Fiona's come-on scantily clad as a challenge compelled Imogen to entertain the kinds of thoughts that you think without thinking. And when Fiona's fingers went skittering across Imogen's torso, the touch tingled before it tickled.

Imogen nudges Fiona's arm, offering her the sticky strawberry orb. Fiona accepts, and Imogen watches as she slips it between her lips and sucks softly.

Imogen feels that slow stir of yearning. Except it isn't that slow anymore. It's a swift shift now, sharp and sudden like an orgasm, a hot shot of confetti that blasts through her entire body.

She wriggles closer to Fiona, trying to be casual, but she sees the eyebrow quirk, the subtle smirk. Fiona releases the sucker and returns the flavor.

"That's me: a sucker for you," Imogen flirts.

"You've certainly got me licked," Fiona flirts back.

Imogen wonders if her face is as red as the maple leaf on the Canadian flag.

"You can dish it out, but you can't taste it," Fiona teases.

"I can so taste it," Imogen insists, brandishing the sucker like a sword. "I can wrap my lips around this thing faster than Lucy and Ethel can wrap those wrappers around that chocolate."

"That sounded a little vulgar," Fiona observes, in limbo between a compliment and a complaint.

"Where you see vulgarity, I see hilarity," Imogen retorts.

"Speaking of hilarity, I'm glad you made me watch this. I can't believe I've never seen it before."

"That's what happens when you spend your life living under a ten-karat rock," Imogen says. She gets up, breaking their pinkie-promise. She knows it's not symbolic, but it's still hard to let go. She enters Fiona's kitchen and chucks the sucker into the trash because, quite frankly, she can think of more productive ways for them to swap spit. "So who do you love more? Me or Lucy?" Imogen climbs back onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her.

Fiona rolls her eyes in time with the credits. "Well, I do have a soft spot for redheads…"

Imogen gasps, grasps the remote. "Tell me you do not still have the hots for Holly J is for Jezebel," she demands, tapping the Off button.

"Imogen." Fiona's tone is scolding, her expression a little scalding.

"Sorry," Imogen mumbles. "But it's your fault for telling me how you felt about her."

"You said I could tell you anything."

"Yeah, anything. Not everything."

"Immy, I'm over her. You know that. I'm into weirdos now."

Imogen perks up. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," Fiona affirms. "Big time."

"Well, since I'm a big-time weirdo, I must be the girl of your dreams."

Fiona's smile is inviting, igniting. "Sweet dreams," she murmurs, reaching for Imogen's hands.

Imogen simpers, lacing her fingers through Fiona's like a corset as she moves onto her girlfriend's lap, a leg on either side of Fiona's thighs, her bottom resting atop Fiona's knees. "Now I know how it feels to sit in the lap of luxury."

Fiona frowns. "I'm practically impoverished, Immy."

"I'll take up a collection for you," Imogen quips. "And how dare you suggest that your lap is not luxurious." She takes a gander at her girlfriend's thighs, seductively showcased in a pair of black pants that are tighter than Fiona's budget. Imogen can't let her gaze linger for too long. "Besides, as long as your last name is Coyne, you'll always have a penny to your name."

Fiona's pout slips into a smile accompanied by a laugh, and Imogen marvels at the beauty of her authenticity.

**I'm thinking of falling in love with her**.

She wrote that in her journal long before the Frostival, even before telling Fiona that she thought of them as soul mates. She writes about Fiona a lot, because she likes it when they're on the same page. When she learned about her father's early onset dementia, Imogen became meticulous about recording everything in her life that she doesn't want to forget. And since Fiona falls into the Everything category, Imogen has amassed an impressive collection of Fiona-friendly anecdotes. Imogen takes the good without the bad, a "best of" collection, because if there's ever any memory that she can't recall and this is the only way to remember it, the deception will feel like perfection.

She takes a picture of her girlfriend, her eye the camera lens, and adds it to the thousands of snapshots that have accumulated in her cerebral scrapbook, the companion piece to her journal. She assigns captions to the Fimages: **sweetheart**, **head honcho of hugging**, **I'd sail on ****that**** dreamboat**.

She has lots of pictures of Fiona's curls, the twirly tresses that Imogen likes to wind around her fingers like a roll of film. And lots of pictures of the two of them together. These she mentally manipulates into heart shapes with **Immy + Fiones Forever** in swirly script inside the outline.

She'd been reluctant at first, to define their relationship, because she thought that it would determine—and cement—her sexuality.

**If I date Fiona, what does that make me?**

It was harder to ask than to answer, because once Imogen started concentrating on their connection, their affection for one another, and not on the "consequences" of dating Fiona, she realized that there really weren't any. There were only perks and possibilities.

And so, in the blank line she'd left below the Q, she added the A:

**Happy.**

"I am so in love with you, it's not even funny." Imogen hears it before she says it: delicate, decisive, definitive. The words barely hover before they cover Fiona's heart, and Imogen delights in her girlfriend's reaction: the way her eyes light up like a flashbulb, the way her smile makes her dimple grin.

It takes a moment for Fiona to collect herself. "Okay," she says, and loops a lock of hair behind Imogen's ear.

Imogen watches, waits, watches Fiona watch her.

Fiona is all smiles and wiles as she holds her girlfriend's gaze.

Eventually, Imogen scoffs. "You say that back."

"Or what?" Fiona taunts.

In fear of tickle torture, Imogen grips Fiona's hands tighter.

Fiona starts to laugh, but the look she's giving Imogen is soft, clear, sincere. "I am crazy in love with you, Immy. And good crazy, for once. As long as I have you—and my health, of course—I'm deliriously happy."

Imogen ingests the words, digests their meaning. She loosens her grip on Fiona's hands, gently releasing them, and eases her into a snug hug.

Imogen sinks into Fiona like a bubble bath, humming happily into her hair. Fiona hugs harder, and Imogen registers the feel of her girlfriend's body, a figure with more curves than a crazy straw. Her knees squeeze Fiona's hips. Hips that look like they could keep a hula hoop rotating for hours.

She relaxes her hold, leans back. The V in Fiona's top has dipped into a U and when Imogen finally finds Fiona's eyes, they are full of hope and heart and heat.

"Fiones," she chastises. "Cut it out."

Fiona isn't really doing anything. But then, she never has to. The only thing Fiona has to do to turn Imogen on is exist.

Fiona gives her a half-smile, like she's too lazy to lift up the other side of her mouth, which isn't at all true because now she's tipping her head for a meet and greet with Imogen's mouth. It's a clingy kiss, thanks to the lollipop, and when Fiona's candy-coated tongue nuzzles her own, Imogen's insides get gooier than s'mores.

Any moment now, Imogen will turn into a great big puddle of fondue and Fiona can just dip her fingers in and…

There it is. That customary quiver. That beguiling elixir of love and lust, fright and delight that often manifests itself in the form of a very damp dot in a very specific spot.

_What a Fi-ling!_


	2. Chapter 2

2.

* * *

"So how's your lady friend?"

Imogen can tell from his impish tone that he hasn't forgotten Fiona's name, and once she realizes that, she starts to giggle, hoping her dad won't notice her cotton candy complexion.

Father and daughter are sharing the sidewalk, and even though it still hurts to take walks without Volta, she hopes it's helping her dad. Walking is good exercise and exercise benefits the brain and if Louis Moreno's mind wanders, he's likely to wander, too, and that could be extremely dangerous. So they walk, regularly, to try and walk off any feelings of irritability or restlessness he might experience.

"Imogen?" Mr. Moreno addresses her, looking more amused than bemused. "Are you with me? Get your head together."

"I will if you will," Imogen teases, intent on treating his dementia like the tragicomedy that it is. "Fiona's spectacular, Dad," she finally answers. "I told her I'm in love with her."

Mr. Moreno looks pleased, proud. "Is that so?"

"That is so. And she dittoed."

"Dittoed?"

"It's mutual."

"Ah," he says, and nods. "Good. Good, I'm glad."

Imogen's grin complements her father's. She loves that she looks like him.

"Dad, um…"

There's a crack in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother's… Imogen cracks a smile, lifts her foot, and avoids the splintered cement. Things with Natalie are copacetic at the moment, and if her mother can be not evil, Imogen can do the same. Still, she feels uncomfortable discussing her love life with Natalie, especially the aspect of her love life that may involve sex.

Imogen would rather seek advice from her dad, because Professor Moreno is always there for his daughter, even when he isn't present. And just because he isn't always present, doesn't mean he never is. Imogen won't treat him like an invalid, won't invalidate his input or opinions. He may have dementia, but that doesn't mean he's demented.

But will he think _she's_ demented if she tells him that she's ready to take the next step in her relationship with Fiona? Imogen and her dad have always kept the lines of communication open, and Mr. Moreno has been marvelously open-minded about his daughter and her lady friend, but still… What if she says something that's better left unsaid? What if this is something he's not ready to hear? Or condone?

_Ugh, come on already. You can do it._

Imogen imagines a tiny cheerleader bouncing on her shoulder, chanting words of encouragement. She wonders what Fiona would look like in a Power Squad uniform: the short skirt, the tight top with the D on it. D for Divine, Delightful, Desirable...

_I can do it. Because if I can't do it, that means I'm not ready to… Do It. Now how to go about doing it…?_

She takes a deep breath. An order of oxygen with a side of courage—and make it snappy.

"Dad, I have… _feelings_ for Fiona," Imogen states, softly but firmly.

Professor Moreno chuckles. "I should hope so."

"And, um, I'd like to… elaborate on those feelings."

"I don't follow."

Imogen picks petulance over panic. "Could I be more obvious?"

Professor Moreno chuckles. "I should hope so."

_Note to self_, she notes, so she can make a note of it later: _Be more obvious_.

"Okay, here's the deal: I want to advance to the next round," Imogen asserts. It's as specific and explicit as she's going to get. "I know I told her I wanted to take things super slow, which I did and we have been, but now I'd like the conveyor belt to move a little faster."

Mr. Moreno winds an arm around his daughter's shoulders and tugs her toward him. "You've been revisiting I Love Lucy, haven't you?" he jests accusingly. "I should have known better than to let you watch that show. The material is too mature for young audiences."

"So… you understand what I'm saying?" she hazards, hopeful.

His head bobs in the affirmative. "Has Fiona… dittoed?"

"Not exactly," Imogen admits. "Well, not yet. I'm pretty positive Fiona will join me in this endeavor. I just haven't asked her yet."

"Didn't you tell me that you felt comfortable talking to her about anything?"

"You remembered!" Imogen gushes, hoping she doesn't sound patronizing.

"How could I forget?" Louis quips. "I would advise you to discuss it. Make sure you're both on the same page—dot all your T's, cross all your I's."

Imogen giggles, crossing her eyes. But when she uncrosses them, she sees that the Etch-A-Sketch is getting fuzzy, losing its sharp lines and goofy loops. It'll be blank soon, she knows, as she feels her dad's arm droop down from her shoulders until they've lost all contact.

"It should be a mutual decision between you and Eli."

Imogen stops walking. Her dad's ahead of her now and so far behind. It's been less than a minute since he embarked on his sabbatical from reality, and already she misses him like crazy.

_Of all things to lose, Dad, it had to be your mind? _

_And why can't I just get you another one?_

Tears drizzle down her cheeks.

Imogen folds her arms around her body, wishing she could be hugging Fiona instead.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

* * *

"We need to talk."

Bianca DeSousa has the kind of confidence that is at once enviable and formidable, and Imogen retreats a half-step. "I didn't sleep with your girlfriend," Bianca informs her, elbowing the locker door. It closes with a quiet clang.

Imogen wrinkles her nose, chastising her choice of words. Once, for approximately five minutes, she considered Mike Dallas competition. But Bianca? Imogen imagines the notation in her journal:

**I can't wait to make love with Fiona. I just hope Bianca doesn't beat me to it.**

"That… didn't even cross my mind," Imogen says, sounding at once defensive and disturbed.

"Sorry," Bianca murmurs, as if she's unaccustomed to apologizing. "Force of habit." She moves to a bench in the hallway. "Sit," she says, and it's an instruction, not an invitation.

Imogen sits. "I'd like to get your opinion on something," she begins, and this time she'll make sure that nothing she says is open to misinterpretation. "I'm, um… well, as you know, Fiona and I are girlfriend and… girlfriend. And, uh, things have been progressing… a little sluggishly in terms of… the physical aspect of our relationship. And, um, I would kind of, sort of, absolutely, positively like to get to the next level."

Bianca smirks. "So you want to play her like a video game?"

"No, I… I'm not trying to… manipulate her or push her buttons or… Why are we speaking in code exactly? A code which, by the way, I have no idea how to crack."

Bianca shrugs. "You started it."

"Sorry. I just… I'm not really used to talking about sex with girls. Wait—that sounded weird. _To_ girls?"

"You want to have sex with two girls?" Bianca queries. "You know Drew would ask to watch, right?"

"It was a preposition," Imogen whimpers. "Not a proposition." She shakes her head, trying to empty out the icky images Bianca is filling it with.

"All right, I'll stop," Bianca vows, but the look on her face promises future torment. "So what makes you think I'm qualified to teach Same Sex Ed?" She sounds flummoxed, but also flattered.

Imogen laughs in spite of herself. She imagines the title of the textbook: Introduction to Sapphic Seduction. "I don't need an instruction manual," she replies, because Imogen is the type of person who prefers to learn by doing. "I just need to know how to bring it up."

"Bring it up?" Bianca echoes, her eyebrows arching like rainbows. "Uh, Imogen, I think you might need an anatomy lesson."

Behind the panes of her glasses, Imogen blinks at Bianca, hoping to convey confusion. Not that she wants Bianca to enlighten her. That is _not_ the desired effect. But if Bianca thinks she's innocent, maybe she'll have mercy on her. Maybe.

"You don't have much experience, do you?" It's more affectionate than condescending. In fact, it's almost wistful.

Imogen's not offended, but she thinks she probably should be. She perfects her posture, the only thing about her that's straight at the moment. "I have experience," Imogen insists. Bianca cocks her head. She's not buying it—hook, line, or sinker. "Albeit none of a sexual nature."

They share a smile.

_Bianca is nice_.

"Look, Drew and I did things backwards. First we hooked up, then we broke up—although it's not like you can really break up with someone you're not even dating… Anyway, we didn't do things traditionally, is what I'm saying. Not like you and Fiona. Have you professed your undying love for each other yet?"

"Obvi," Imogen replies, as if Bianca's think tank is running on empty.

"Well, if you can tell her you love her, then you can tell her you want her," Bianca reasons. "Don't just assume she's ready and willing. Although, judging by the way she's always looking at you like she wants to rip off that jumpsuit and—"

"It's not a jumpsuit," Imogen bristles. "And I do have other articles of clothing."

"All of which will come off if you take my advice. Just tell her what you're feeling and make sure she's feeling it, too. And please do not start the conversation with 'We need to talk.' That's just… No. All right, pretend I'm Fiona."

"O… kay."

Bianca pulls a tube of lip gloss from her purse, twists off the top, and streaks the wand across her mouth. Subsequent actions include a flippant hair flip and a swoony sigh.

Then she clamps a hand over Imogen's knee.

Imogen nearly leapfrogs off the bench.

"Have I ever told you how devastatingly sexy and not at all disturbingly childlike you look in your Super Mario overalls and Fraggle Rock pigtails? You, Imogen Moreno, are a walking aphrodisiac."

"Uh…" Imogen replies, because it's a dot dot dot kind of moment. Bianca may be using her natural voice, but she's saying some very unnatural things.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want to finish what you can't start."

"Uh…" Imogen replies, because it bears repeating. "I'm not looking at you like… that."

"Don't undress me with your lies."

"I'm sorry! I'll… use my hands instead?"

"Now we're making progress."

"But, Bi— I mean, Fi—"

"Fie Fo Fum."

The voice isn't coming from in front of Imogen. It's coming from behind her.

Imogen turns. Super slow. A speed she's come to abhor but one that's entirely appropriate for moments like these. Imogen should have seen this coming. She feels like Lucy Ricardo, mixed up in misunderstanding, and now she's got some 'splainin' to do.

Fiona looks like she can't decide whether to smile or smite someone, but Imogen is convinced she's fast leaning toward the latter. Seeing red. Queen of Hearts red. Off with her head. Bianca's head first. Because isn't that what every girl does? Takes it out on the other woman? But her head, too, will roll like a bowling ball, because when Jack fell down and broke his crown, Jill came tumbling after.

She can see it now—

_Fiona: Did you get fired from your latest blowjob, bitch? _

_Bianca: Simmer down, lady killer. Don't be dense and get intense over nothing._

Imogen doesn't really think that Fiona would ever utter such a catty comment or that Bianca would bust a rhyme like that, although _I should seriously consider writing a song for WhisperHug… Wait, where was I?_

_Fiona: Over nothing? Are you saying my girlfriend's nothing?_

_Bianca: You wanna be startin' somethin', drama queen? 'Cause I will kick your derriere from here to Japan._

Imogen is so busy scripting the confrontation in her head before its imminent decapitation that she's completely oblivious to the actual conversation.

"Yeah, you're right—this is exactly what it looks like," Bianca is saying. "It's a swap meet."

Fiona nods knowingly. "Works for me. I mean, I already live with Drew, so it's certainly more convenient. And you and Imogen will have endless fun together." Fiona takes Imogen's hand, helps her stand. "Just look at this walking aphrodisiac," she says, maneuvering Imogen into a slow motion, showcasing spin. "I have to warn you, though—she has a lot of ticklish parts."

_If Bianca tries to tickle me, heads really will roll_, Imogen vows.

"So you might want to keep your hands off her," Fiona finishes. It's a passive-aggressive suggestion, but Fiona's delivery is a little too… sprightly to be intimidating.

Bianca just shrugs, appraising Imogen. "I guess she's not bad."

"We just drew her that way."

"Speaking of Drew, want to head to the mall and make the trade?"

"I refuse to be traded to another team," Imogen huffs.

"Oh, you've finally figured out which one you're playing for?" Bianca queries.

"I play for Team Imogen, which is more than I can say for either of you." Imogen glares at Bianca before transferring that glare to Fiona, but inevitably the glaring turns to staring, because when it comes to avoiding Fiona, especially those glass-pebble blue eyes, Imogen can't help but suck at it. "Fiona Coyne," she says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, because that's what bespectacled people do when they're being humiliated, "you're monkey-related."


	4. Chapter 4

4.

* * *

"Hey, I didn't like you either at first," Bianca opines, and this time she's talking _to_ Fiona, not _as_ Fiona, thank goodness. "I thought you were the ultimate material girl: high-maintenance and highfalutin and all that. Basically, a cross between Scarlett O'Hara and a French poodle."

Fiona scoffs. Then she's silent. Then she's scowling. "Imogen!"

Imogen settles into the seat opposite her girlfriend. "Yes?"

"Aren't you going to say something in my defense?"

"Something in my defense."

Fiona crosses her arms, boosting her bosom in the process.

No big deal—Imogen can talk and gawk at the same time. "What can I say, Fiones? She nailed you."

"No, that's your responsibility," Bianca reminds her.

"Don't worry," Imogen says, feeling a little sassy. "I always take care of my responsibilities."

Imogen winks at Bianca, but not at Fiona—she doesn't feel _that_ sassy—and pokes another straw into the plastic lid of the cup she's holding. Across from Imogen, Fiona has unfolded her arms and is now sitting with hands clasped and ankles crossed, looking far too prim and proper for a girl whose tongue would be hanging out of her mouth if she weren't using it to lick her lips in that way that wets Imogen's, too.

Imogen crosses her legs, sliding the cup into the center of the table. She and Fiona take simultaneous sips, sharing the strawberry milkshake like a pair of sweethearts in a '50s diner. Imogen giggles, leaning forward until their foreheads are touching, and Fiona unclasps her hands in favor of fondling Imogen's fingers.

"That is so gay," Bianca mumbles.

"Aww, is the squeaky third wheel not getting the grease?"

Imogen would prefer to look at her girlfriend rather than her girlfriend's roommate, but it would be bad manners to ignore Drew Torres, no matter how great the temptation. "Greetings, earthling," she says.

Drew scrutinizes the couple. "Courting in the food court? Very original." He plants one on Bianca, snags a sip of her vanilla shake, and drops into the seat next to Fiona. "What's up?"

"Well, these seating arrangements could not be more appropriate," Bianca replies, surveying their little group. "We've decided to swap. I have to date Imogen and you have to date Fiona."

Drew frowns, his brow pleating like a paper fan. "Oh, so _that's_ what the L stands for."

Bianca chafes at the affront to her middle name. "Dummy," she mutters, but coming from her, it sounds like a term of endearment.

Imogen and Fiona laugh, and Imogen strokes the bumpy surface of Fiona's ring. "You know, Drew, if you don't want to date Fiona, I will."

"You are."

"Just like I said I would. 'Cause I'm a woman of my word. Right, Fiones?"

"Right, Immy."

Drew shifts in his chair. "Yeah, um, I think my break is over, so…"

"You're gonna make a break for it?" Bianca supplies.

"They don't call you a Bright Spark for nothing." Drew leans across the table to kiss Bianca, but pauses mid-pucker. "You're not really getting rid of me, are you?"

Bianca shakes her head. "That was just lip service."

Drew kisses his fiancée. "No, _that_ was just lip service," he says, grinning like a snowman.

"You guys want to walk around?" Bianca suggests after Drew's departure. "Try stuff on?"

"I'll only try stuff on that I'll look terrible in," Fiona stipulates, rising from the table. "Then I won't care if I can afford it or not."

Imogen goes to her side. "Poor Fiona," she says, patting her arm in simulated sympathy. "Most people go from rags to riches. But not you, my little rebel. Like I said, I always imagined you could do anything." She lifts her lips to Fiona's cheek and presses gently.

Fiona grins and grips Imogen's hand. Imogen giggles, feeling lucky and loopy and lovesick.

"When the two of you are done looking at each other like that—"

"Like what?" Fiona asks, taking their shake from the table. "Like we want to finish what we can't start?"

_Fiona heard that whole conversation with Bianca, didn't she? You know, for someone in heels, that Miss Coyne is surprisingly stealthy_.

"So, where should we go first?" Imogen inquires, but Bianca is already leading the way.

Imogen shakes her head. "If she got any farther ahead of us, she'd be in Prince Edward Island," she remarks, as she and Fiona trail behind Bianca like ducklings.

"Maybe she just wants to give us some privacy," Fiona suggests, rubbing her shoulder against Imogen's.

"Well, I guess when you really consider it, she is kind of considerate," Imogen says, curling her fingers to stroke the back of Fiona's hand. "I just don't like to think of myself as a follower, that's all. That being said, I'd probably follow _you_ anywhere." Imogen hopes the levity of her tone will offset the gravity of her words. She wouldn't want Fiona to think she was pressuring her.

The way she thought Fiona was pressuring her.

"So, then, you'll follow me in here?" Fiona is asking. She stalls in front of a store, and since they're holding hands, Imogen also comes to a standstill.

Imogen regards Fiona. Her cheeks are the same shade as their strawberry milkshake and there's this tantalizing little twinkle in her eyes.

_Okay, well, pressure's off, that's for sure. Looks like it wasn't even on in the first place_.

Imogen looks in the store window. Inside, there are lacy things and racy things, things with straps and things with gaps.

Imogen feels a hand on her shoulder. Bianca is behind them now, lurking, smirking. As lovely as it would be to see Fiona partially clothed, preferably in that dolphin-gray negligee over there—the one with the tight fit and high slit and _why is this a bad idea, again? _

Because, Imogen recalls, sweeping the dirty thoughts out of her mind, she's never seen Fiona in any state of undress before. Any time Imogen sleeps over at Fiona's—or vice versa, because Imogen is no longer embarrassed about her father—they change in private. If they change in public, things will change. In public. And a shopping mall is hardly the ideal location to celebrate Fiona's half-birthday suit.

"We can't go in here with these," Imogen stammers, referring to their milkshakes. "No food or drinks allowed."

"I'll finish mine if you finish yours," Bianca offers.

Strike one.

"I thought you were only gonna try on stuff you'd look terrible in, Fiones."

"I am. That's why I'm putting you in charge of the selection process."

Strike two.

_Wait, what?_

"Fiona! Are you insulting my taste?"

Fiona takes a dainty sip of their shake. "Imogen," she scolds, trapping the straw inside her smile, "you know I love your taste."

_Well, you __will__, anyway_.

Imogen feels the blush rush to her face.

"What?" Fiona probes.

"Nothing. I just… thought I was thinking out loud."

"I'm not too big a fan of window shopping," Bianca pipes up, "so either we're in or we're out."

"We're out," Imogen declares.

"That's fine by me. And don't worry, Fiona. I've got her covered. So to speak."

So saying, Bianca pivots on her heel and resumes their game of Follow the Leader.

"Uh, you can't just say something like that and then be on your merry way," Fiona informs her, in hot pursuit.

Imogen tailgates, feeling like a little red wagon.

Bianca stops. "You're gonna love it," she says, sounding at once nonplussed and nonchalant, which just ruffles Fiona's feathers even more. "It's short and skimpy and red. As in ready. Ready for bed."

Fiona looks ready to pitch a fit. Or a milkshake. Imogen reaches over and plucks the cup out of her hand, just in case.

"Okay, so Bianca gave me a… garment," Imogen mediates. "It's no big deal. It's just fabric."

"Sex fabric," Fiona clarifies.

Imogen chokes back a chuckle, imagining how that entry would look in her dictionary.

**sex fabric: noun. fabric that precipitates and initiates sex.**

"She gave you bedroom attire, Imogen," Fiona persists.

"At least she didn't give me bedroom eyes," Imogen reasons, hoping her giggle will be contagious.

But Fiona is immune. Whoever said laughter is the best medicine had obviously never met Fiona Coyne.

Bianca laughs, though, so at least it's spreading to someone. "Fiona, I think you'd better double check my reputation, okay? See, I'm only a threat to girls with boyfriends. But if it makes you feel any better, it wasn't a gift. It was a re-gift. Some loser gave it to me and I didn't want anything from him, so I gave it to Imogen. Like a token of friendship or whatever."

"Aww," Imogen coos. "Isn't that sweet, Fiones?"

"She is such a button," Fiona says, more in mockery than in agreement. But her face softens and her eyes brighten. "I'm sorry for getting so… passionate. In all fairness, I did give Holly J something similar, so if I can have that back"—she reaches for the milkshake—"I'll need something to wash down that chill pill."

Imogen relinquishes the cup. She doesn't have much of a grip on herself, either. "You gave Holly J what exactly?"

"It was nothing. Just a hand-me-down."

"So… you wore it first?"

Fiona shrugs. "Barely."

"Fiona!" Imogen harrumphs. "You gave her something you wore barely? Something that touched your naked body?"

"Please—spare me the Sapphic details," Bianca implores, looking a little woebegone.

"I wasn't naked when I was wearing it," Fiona flounders.

"I didn't wear what I gave her," Bianca points out, surreptitiously siding with Imogen.

"It was a parting gift," Fiona splutters. "Just something for her to remember me by after she graduated."

"Like a token of friendship?" Bianca supplies.

"Yes! Thank you."

Imogen seethes, even though she isn't really irate, just irrational. But not in a bad way. In fact, she feels vaguely tense—and weirdly relaxed.

"Let me see if I can clear this up real quick," Bianca intervenes. "Fighting is a way of releasing pent-up sexual energy. See, you're not so much bothered as you are hot and bothered. Case in point"—she points to where they're still connected—"normal people do not hold hands and lock horns at the same time."

"Did you hear that, Imogen?" Fiona beams. "We're not normal."

Imogen brims with pride. "I know! Isn't it marvelous?"

They giggle and they kiss, nose-to-nose, and in that brief bit of friction, Imogen feels their signature spark. "So… this argument's over?"

Bianca rolls her eyes. "Duh, dummy."

"Okay, good. I'm glad we're in harmony about that."

"Yeah, I don't speak Care Bear." Bianca yanks the milkshake out of Fiona's hand. "Now would you please go ahead and finish making up? I don't have all day."

"Okay," Fiona says, and guides Imogen into her arms, until they're embracing so tightly, they're practically wearing each other.

They kiss, mouth-to-mouth, and Imogen's whole body takes note, each tingle mingling with the next in a symphony of sensations.

When they first started dating, Imogen was reluctant to kiss Fiona in public, especially off school property. She was afraid people would look and laugh and label her. Then she remembered that she could care less what people thought of her. And so she did—she cared less. And kissed more.

"Ew."

It's not like Imogen hasn't heard it before. And it only sounds slightly worse coming from someone else's mouth than it does coming from her own.

Bianca, a certified first responder, comes to their rescue. "You don't want to see my friends kiss? Then kiss off."

The recipient of Bianca's killer looks—and Imogen is allowed to notice these particular killer looks—is a teenage girl who's probably around their age.

"I'm not grossed out by your friends," the girl informs her. "I'm grossed out by the Boogeyman over there. See him?" She points past Bianca.

"The guy who's a little… nosy?" Fiona asks.

"And not in a Curious George kind of way?" Imogen elaborates.

"That's the one."

"Ew," the trio harmonizes.

"Yeah, that's what I said," the girl says, and smiles, shifting her shopping bag to her other hand. "And I'm gay, too, so I think it'd be a little unethical for me to be homophobic. Although would you mind waiting until I leave before you start kissing again? I'm newly single, so I really don't need to see that right now."

"Done," Bianca agrees.

_When did she get promoted to smooch supervisor?_ Imogen wonders.

Apparently, the newly single girl is wondering the same thing. "You wouldn't happen to know any cute unattached girls, would you?"

"I'm engaged to be attached," Bianca replies, presenting the evidence.

"Lucky lady," the girl says, and her imitation smile wipes the grin off Imogen's face before it even gets there.

"Lad," Bianca corrects her.

"Just as I suspected: all the good ones are either taken or straight. Or both. All right, well, carry on, congrats, etcetera."

"Wow, Bianca," Imogen gushes when the girl is gone. She drapes an arm around Bianca's shoulders. "You are on everyone's I'd-Hit-That list. It must suck to be you."

Fiona looks like she's going to giggle, but Bianca has the last laugh. "I do give good headway," Bianca boasts, and demonstrates by putting one foot in front of the other, until she's progressed a considerable distance.

"She stole our milkshake," Imogen pouts, watching as Bianca disposes of their beverages. "I liked sharing with you." Fiona's dimple dents her cheek, and Imogen's heart knocks against her chest. Something else is knocking, too: opportunity. "While we're on the subject, um, of sharing, would you be… would you like to share a… a bed with me? Because I am ready, like really, really ready, to… experience you. Are you—"

"Absolutely," Fiona dittos without delay. Then, politely, contritely: "Sorry. I didn't mean to have such a… vigorous reaction."

Imogen rubs her nose against Fiona's. "I like vigorous reactions."

Fiona's blush brightens. "When? I mean, when would you like to… experience… me?"

Imogen considers the question. It's not a school night, but it was a school day. "Is tomorrow good for you?"

Fiona keeps her composure, but her eyes change color, like a mood ring. Like an I'm-in-the-mood ring. "Tomorrow is… yeah. Absolutely. Tomorrow is terrific."

Imogen grins, her head spinning like a pinwheel as she reaches for Fiona's hand.

The couple wanders around the mall, exchanging glimpses and giggles and intangible love notes. Every so often, Bianca glances over her shoulder, like she wants to make sure she doesn't lose them, and every time she does, Imogen and Fiona wink or wave or whistle, just to see Bianca do her darndest not to smile and—

"Enter!" Imogen commands, making a sudden stop. She steers Fiona into a toy store and Bianca trudges inside after them.

In her excitement, Imogen lets go of Fiona's hand and sprints toward a display of windup toys. Imogen plucks a plastic primate from a basket and proceeds to crank the knob in its side.

"Try not to get too wound up," Fiona cautions, as she picks one up, too.

"Monkey see, monkey do," Imogen teases. She sets her monkey onto the counter and squeals in delight as it performs a series of somersaults.

"You're bananas," Fiona giggles, looking similarly regaled.

"That's right. And I go ape over you."

Bianca mutters something that sounds like "Gimme one," so Imogen gives her one, and the three of them play together. Imogen loves reliving her childhood, but she can tell that Fiona and Bianca are living theirs for the first time.

Imogen focuses on Fiona's laughter. Her girlfriend has the kind of laugh that makes Imogen want to go running in the rain, splashing in all the puddles in her goofy galoshes and even goofier grin.

It takes a while for the excitement to wind down, but Imogen doesn't mind super slow speed when fun and games and a girl who's so stinking adorable she can't stand it, are involved.

They set out to explore the store, starting in the first aisle. Pink boxes with plastic people on one side, big boxes of bogus babies on the other. Girl stuff. Imogen smiles—not because of the sexist selection, but because of the song that's coming from the circle on the ceiling.

She recognizes it: an oldie by The Knack, probably a one-hit wonder, because she can't name any other song they've sung. It's not exactly kid-friendly, but she can make it work. She'll just have to tweak it a little, that's all. Personalize it.

Instinctively, Imogen grabs Fiona, catching hold of her wrists. "Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one. When you gonna give me some time, Fiona? Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run—"

"And on that sour note," Bianca interjects, "I'll be leaving you two love birdbrains alone."

"What?" Imogen shouts. She doesn't need to shout. The volume hardly hinders conversation. But she's in a shouting mood.

Bianca makes like Drew and makes a break for it.

"Aww, look, Fiones—the third wheel is rolling away."

Bianca's wave morphs into a gesture that isn't a thumbs-up but should be.

"Turncoat!" Imogen taunts.

"Immy, they're gonna give us the boot," Fiona frets.

"Why? We don't work here. Anyway, you have enough boots."

"You're right—you are a big-time weirdo."

"Help!" Imogen shrieks. "I've fallen off my rocker and can't get up."

Fiona shakes her head, like she's found love with a hopeless case. Imogen gets giddy at the thought. She watches Fiona, who has the sense and sophistication to look scandalized, as if Imogen has just folded up the social ladder and forgot Fiona was on it.

She starts singing again, voice vacillating between shy and sweet and loud and proud. "Come a little closer, huh? Oh, will you, huh? Close enough to look in my eyes, Fiona."

Fiona does, and Imogen smiles when she detects the delight. She keeps her close, tipping her into an inelegant dip.

"Imogen!"

"Don't fight this, Fiona, or I will drop you like a sack of sorries."

At some point during the instrumental, while Imogen is swinging their joined hands back and forth, like one of those Kit-Cat clocks with the tick-tock tail, and Fiona has the rolling eyes to match, the store manager approaches. He's behind Fiona, and Imogen sees him first: a man with a white shirt, ponytail, and pointy nose—a combination, Imogen notes, that makes him look like a unicorn.

"Excuse me," the unicorn says.

"No, you may not cut in," Imogen informs him, pulling Fiona away.

"Girls, I'm going to have to ask you to give the horseplay a rest."

Imogen all but guffaws. "Check this guy out," she whispers to Fiona. "Not in a not-gay way."

Fiona looks over her shoulder. "Hi, sir."

Unicorn crosses his arms. "Close. Actually, it's 'Bye, sir'."

Imogen sighs, exaggerating her exasperation. "Let's go, Fiones," she chirps, dropping one hand but keeping hold of the other.

She belts out her parting words: "M-m-m-my Fiona!"

_Let's broadcast it to the world_.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

* * *

"Imogen, darling," Fiona says, amorous and glamorous and unquestionably sincere, "each minute away from you is a Bunsen burner, each hour a maniacal eternity. I can't stop thinking about the color of your penny loafers, the way you wear your Adirondack chair, the way you toss your tinfoil. When I look at you, my tailbone skips a beat, my bellybutton leaps into my throat, and my tambourine trembles so much I can hardly exfoliate. You set my tutu on fire. I love you from the bottom of my spleen."

So saying, Fiona flips the tablet of Mad Libs closed and clips the pen to the cover.

Imogen gapes at her—after she's done giggling for a maniacal eternity. "Did you seriously just read that whole thing with a straight face?"

"Technically, no," Fiona answers.

"Okay, and _I'm_ the weirdo?"

"Technically, yes," Louis answers.

Imogen must be hearing things, she decides, and seeing things as well, because her father and her girlfriend definitely did not just high-five each other across the coffee table.

"Who are you people?" Imogen demands, smiling through her scowl.

"Hey, _I_ ask that question around here," Mr. Moreno reminds her.

In response, Imogen leans over and squishes him like a human grape press, because she can't remember the last time he asked that question around here.

Louis laughs. "What's the hug for?"

Imogen shrugs. "I'm just prone to random acts of kindness, I suppose."

Fiona smiles at her girlfriend. "So did Imogen tell you the sordid toy story?" she asks. Her hand rests beside Imogen's on the couch, her fingers curved like the stems of Imogen's spectacles.

"Yes," Imogen answers, hitching her hand to Fiona's. "I even showed him the obituary notice: yesterday afternoon, Degrassi's princess-in-residence, Fiona Coyne, died of complications from public humiliation. In lieu of flowers, please send Louboutins."

"Who's Lou Boutins?" Professor Moreno inquires.

"Just one of Fiona's old flames," Imogen replies. "She dumped him when she moved to the Isle of Lesbos."

"Ah. And did it burn him up inside when you ended it?"

"Naturally," Imogen assures him.

"I've been in his shoes."

"Really? I'm surprised you could walk in them," Imogen quips, deciding to heal this old wound with humor.

"Louboutin is a shoe designer, Professor Moreno," Fiona educates him, and proceeds to elaborate.

Louis listens attentively, but Imogen wouldn't mind if he checked out for a bit, which she's about to do. (Just because she and Fiona are soul mates, doesn't mean that she and Fiona are sole mates.) Subtly, Imogen shifts her leg so that her knee is touching Fiona's, enjoying the rough rub of Fiona's stockings against her own. She thinks about that episode of I Love Lucy where Ricky, Fred, and Ethel are waiting for Lucy, who is nine months enceinte, to deliver the news that it's time to go to the hospital. They decide to rehearse their plan of action, which opens with Ricky emerging from the bedroom and proclaiming: "The time has come."

_That's right, Fiones. The time has come_.

Fiona has been at Imogen's house all day. First they did homework, then Fiona asked Mr. Moreno if he would be up for a game of Charades, because Imogen had mentioned that she likes to play mind games with her dad to help sharpen his synapses. Charades led to Pictionary, which led to Balderdash, which led to Mad Libs, because humor is also a boon to the brain, and somewhere in between, they had lunch and dinner.

"I'm gonna go brush my teeth," Imogen announces. She's not worried about leaving Fiona alone with her dad, because Fiona's not worried about being alone with him. Plus, there's a caretaker in the kitchen, unobtrusive but ready to lend a hand if and when necessary.

Imogen trots up the stairs, not daring to turn around because if she does, she'll be too tempted to blow Fiona a kiss, which seems harmless enough, but Imogen knows that even her invisible kisses make Fiona smolder. That's what she likes to think, anyway.

In the bathroom, as she mops her teeth with toothpaste, Imogen is impossibly excited. All day long, she and Fiona haven't been postponing intimacy. They've been preparing for it. Laughter loosens you up, and they've been doing plenty of it. And now, Imogen feels completely relaxed, like she's expended all of her nervous energy while conserving all of her… sexual energy.

Imogen bounds out of the bathroom and almost whacks into Fiona, who nearly collides into Mr. Moreno and his caretaker.

A series of sorries commence.

"I just came to say goodnight, ladies," Louis says. "Goodnight, ladies."

Imogen embraces her dad. "Goodnight, Nanny and the Professor," she says, and her father chuckles cheerfully.

The caretaker, only mildly amused at having been named after a silly '70s sitcom, leads Louis down the hall.

Fiona enters the bathroom. Imogen tilts against the doorframe, watching as Fiona unzips her toiletries bag and removes her toothbrush. She squeezes a stripe of Imogen's toothpaste on the bristles and brushes.

"Fiones, you're foaming at the mouth," Imogen teases, as the purple gel churns sparkly suds against Fiona's teeth. "You look like a rabid French poodle."

Fiona laughs, and a spritz of frothy flecks dapples the bathroom mirror. She takes a towel to it. "You little stinker," she grumbles, mush-mouthed.

"If you had gargled, you wouldn't have garbled," Imogen informs her, filling a cup with water. "You need to brush up on your brushing, Miss Coyne."

Fiona sighs, rolls her eyes, and swishes the water between her cheeks.

"Come here," Imogen whispers when she's through, and it's only a few steps before Fiona is kissably close. Imogen seals the space between them, pursuing the pressure of Fiona's lips. Imogen thrives under pressure, she's discovered.

"We have similar tastes," Imogen observes when they part. Then she gasps, mouth open like a napkin dispenser. "You took my breath away!" she accuses her girlfriend.

"And I'm not giving it back," Fiona declares. She reaches for Imogen's hand, holds it, molds it into her own.

"Fine," Imogen says, as they move down the hall. "What's mine is yours."

They approach Imogen's bedroom. Fiona would know it was Imogen's bedroom even if she'd never been in there before—there's a sign taped to the door that reads **Imogen's Bedroom**. Imogen had posted these and similar signs around the house shortly after learning about her dad's dementia. Louis is not entirely thrilled with the redecorating his daughter has done, but he humors her. He won't let her wear a nametag, though, because that's more than a little insulting. Anyway, knowing her name isn't the same as knowing who she is.

And that's Immy, lover of Fiona Coyne and soon-to-be Fiona Coyne's lover.

When they're inside, Imogen shuts and secures the door. Normally, she leaves it unlocked—her father has always respected her privacy—but on a night like this, when they're going to need all the privacy they can get, she's not taking any chances.

Lock door, lock lips, lock hips—in that order, then bumble toward the bed. Imogen trips over Fiona's overnight bag and the two take a tumble.

"Thanks, Fiones. You made me fall for you all over again. Once wasn't enough?"

Fiona moves her bag. "Once is never enough," she murmurs, turning on the charm while turning on a lamp. "It was just so much fun the first time, I thought I would do it over and over again."

Imogen's thoughts run amuck: happy thoughts and sappy thoughts, dreamy thoughts and steamy thoughts.

She guides Fiona to the head of the bed, until they sit snuggled up against Imogen's pillow. They breathe together, Fiona petting Imogen's arm and Imogen admiring the photograph on her nightstand. It's a picture of Fiona, wearing Imogen's cat ears headband and a fierce feline facial expression. After she developed it, Imogen wrote in a caption, identifying Fiona as **My Favorite Purrson**.

A serene smile tickles Imogen's lips, and she hugs Fiona to her heart's content. There's a kind of milk-and-cookies comfort about her girlfriend that makes Imogen feel totally at ease.

So at ease, in fact, that she feels comfortable making the first move. Imogen guides her hand from the side of Fiona's shirt to the front. There, she tucks three fingers between two buttons and touches the snippet of skin underneath the denim.

Fiona is softer than cotton candy, and Imogen feels the quiet quiver of her girlfriend's body as it warms to her touch.

"We're gonna take the next step," Imogen marvels.

"I just want to be with you, Immy," Fiona says. "If you keep climbing steps, eventually you get to the top. And when you're on top, there's nowhere else to go but down. I know that sounds really pessimistic, but I just like to think of this as another way for us to be together. And I want us to be together, Immy, in every way imaginable."

Imogen's smile stretches from her soul to Fiona's. "You're magnificent," she says in a whisperhug.

"And lovable," Fiona adds, as if it's a revelation.

Which is exactly what it is.

Imogen regards Fiona, and her heart hurts to see her girlfriend so vibrant with vulnerability.

"The lovable-ist," Imogen insists, her eyes shooting cupid's arrows at Fiona.

Her girlfriend giggles, flashing her teeth and flaunting her dimple.

A grin nips at Imogen's lips. There's a pussycat on her pillowcase, skulls on her sheets, and her favorite person on the planet in her bed. She holds Fiona's gaze, watches as her eyes turn pitch-black, like musical notes, and she wonders if her own lust looks like that.

Fiona's fingers flirt with the hem of Imogen's skirt. "Let's just do what we've been doing," she says, her eyes strolling along Imogen's body. "Let's take this super slow."

"Make love, not haste. Got it," Imogen confirms, as the distance between them dwindles.

She delights in the capture of Fiona's embrace, the rapture of her kiss.

Fiona's hands, with their pink-frosted fingers, travel up and down the coast, navigating Imogen's sides but steering clear of all the… hot spots.

Imogen lolls onto her back, and Fiona falls onto her front, until they're knotted like a cherry stem because it takes two to tangle. Imogen likes the way their bodies dig into the mattress in a gradual grind of hips and lips.

Imogen sculpts Fiona's shape with her hands, her tongue sweeping deep into Fiona's mouth to trace her teeth and tickle her palate, and she wonders how they're ever going to stop kissing.

At least one of them would have to take a breather, and it isn't going to be Imogen.

"Is it okay if I take something off?"

It's going to be Fiona.

Fiona is now half-hovering, and Imogen whisks her hair away from her face, streaking a sleek leak of perspiration across her forehead.

"We can't have you combusting, now, can we?" she teases. "Well, I already know that you dress to impress. But I don't know if you _un_dress to impress. I'm gonna need to see your credentials, Miss Coyne."

"Then I'm gonna need to see your ticklish parts, Miss Moreno."

"All of them?" Imogen gasps, hand to her heart in mock shock.

"Yes, all of them. I've seen London, I've seen France. Now I want to see your…"

"Underpants!" Imogen supplies, scandalized. "All right. But you first. Strip, tease."

Fiona stays on top but her top doesn't stay on, and Imogen watches Fiona reveal her appeal button by button.

"Are you still hot?" Imogen stammers, her attention focused on the sexy scoops barricaded inside Fiona's bra.

"You tell me."

Imogen can't tell her anything at the moment.

Fiona laughs, and then her hands vanish beneath her skirt and she works the waistband of her tights down and out of hiding. Imogen looks on as she liberates her legs and then lets her skirt off the hook as well.

"Okay, you have my credentials. Now do I get to see your ticklish parts?"

"Sure," Imogen squeaks, feeling silly for feeling self-conscious.

She begins to undress, hoping she'll impress Fiona the way Fiona impressed her. She removes her clothes carefully, feeling her cheeks redden like a sunburn under the heat of Fiona's gaze.

"Um, how do I look?"

Fiona cocks her head, looking thoughtful—and lustful. "I'd put you somewhere between splendid and superb."

Imogen beams, her lips stretching into a banana-shaped smile. _Why don't you just put me between your legs?_

Though the challenge Imogen issued is inaudible, Fiona takes it on, lower limbs opening into a butterfly position and enveloping Imogen's pretzel pose.

Imogen cants her head up, until she reaches the faint frenzy of freckles on Fiona's nose. The freckles are only visible when her girlfriend goes naked from the neck up, which Imogen thinks she should do more often.

Imogen rocks forward, lowering her lips as she guides Fiona onto her back. Imogen stretches her legs out until her feet find the pillow, and then Fiona's feet find hers and they play footsie.

Imogen giggles, her hands riding Fiona's rollercoaster curves. Their kisses are romantic, frantic, no longer subdued, because try as she might, Imogen can't ignore the sweet heat south of the border of her underwear. Neither can her girlfriend—hands hot on Imogen's tail, Fiona is practically embroidering that underwear.

"Off," Imogen whimpers.

"Sorry," Fiona simpers, a woozy but wounded look in her eyes.

"Fiones," Imogen sighs. "I don't want your hands off me. I want _these_ off me." And they're off, her newly embroidered underwear, with a few twists and turns along the way.

Fiona's eyes stretch wide, an impressive yet accidental impersonation of Lucy Ricardo.

"You are so appallingly cute, Fiona Coyne, I could just eat you out."

Fiona's eyebrows curve, mimicking the Humber Bay Arch Bridge. "Out?"

It had been a slip of the tongue, but Fiona looks hopeful—and a little hesitant, too.

"In?"

"Up," Fiona supplies, and now she doesn't look hopeful or hesitant, just… disillusioned.

"Out," Imogen insists. "I said out. It's my word and I'm a woman of my word, so I will do as I say. Besides, when you're on top, there's nowhere else to go but down." Imogen winks.

Fiona blinks, and then she blushes. "Can… I go first?"

Imogen kisses her cheek. "I get to go first," she says, her taste buds already tingling. She and Fiona have discussed their sexual history—briefly, because when you have as little experience as they do, the only kind of discussion you can have is a brief one. Imogen knows that Fiona has been intimate with another girl—some Charlie character, but according to Fiona, things didn't… get out of hand, their intimacy never progressing beyond touching.

Imogen, on the other hand, has always considered herself a pretty progressive person.

Imogen reaches behind her back. "Is my bra off the hook or what?" she teases, as the straps shimmy down her arms. Fiona giggles as her eyes goggle. Imogen collects her hands. "If you're gonna look, you have to touch."

Fiona directs her attention to Imogen's breasts. She handles with flair and care, sending silent shivers blasting through Imogen's body.

Imogen looks down, observing as Fiona kneads the pink protrusions in the center. "Aww, you made them look like pencil erasers," Imogen giggles, and before she knows it, her ticklish parts are under attack and she is squealing through her squirms. "I knew it was a mistake to say that."

"Well, it's a good thing you have those erasers then, isn't it?" Fiona counters, her hands busy and dizzy and bold.

When Fiona tickles Imogen way below her bellybutton, Imogen nearly catapults off the bed.

Fiona's fingers freeze. "Wait, are you… Are your… lady parts included in your ticklish parts?"

"Not until _you_ touched me. It doesn't tickle when I touch myself."

Fiona straightens—or rather, moves into a sitting position. "You touch yourself?"

"Certainly." Imogen's going for husky but her voice comes out high, and she sounds like a cross between Frenchy from Grease and Jeanette the Chipette. "I mean, sometimes. Not often. Every once in a while, but frequently. Lately. Frequently lately. Was that TMI?"

"Uh, only if it stands for That's Majorly Interesting."

"I like to think of it as self-service with a smile," Imogen remarks, providing more interesting information. "What about you? Do you ever… give yourself a hand?"

Fiona looks bashful, her cheeks princess-pink and her bottom lip lodged between her teeth. "Well, what else am I supposed to do when I think about you… looking like that?"

"Like what?" Imogen probes.

"Like this," Fiona clarifies, gesturing to Imogen's bare necessities.

"I like visual aids, too," Imogen shares. "Let's see that whole shebanging body of yours."

Fiona rolls her eyes but complies, and Imogen takes it all in as Fiona takes it all off.

It takes a moment for Imogen's eyes to adjust, as if someone's just switched on a light in a dark room. Fiona's body is a potpourri of swerves and slopes and swoops and Imogen is well aware that she's gaping, her mouth frozen open like a CPR dummy.

"Um, can I get some of that self-service with a smile for _my_self?" Fiona requests, her words sly but her voice shy.

Imogen pats the pillow. "Sure thing," she says, and waits patiently for Fiona to get settled.

Imogen gazes at her, at the girl she admires and desires and cares about more than anyone.

The one who's in her heart, her head, her bed.

The one who's The One.

Imogen takes off her glasses, because she can see Fiona quite queerly.

She's onto her now, and they connect like building blocks.

Their kisses are quiet and questing, their limbs tied like shoelaces, and Imogen delights in the soft scrape of Fiona's sex against her thigh.

Imogen kisses her all over, over and over, mouth clinging to Fiona's body like those old plush Garfields with the suction cup paws that stick to your car window.

Imogen touches Fiona's breasts, the scoops plump and cushy against her palms. Her tongue loops hoops around a nipple, and it puckers in her mouth like the tip of a lemon.

Imogen sucks softly. Her palm shifts to Fiona's side, drifts to her thigh, lifts to the curly garnish above her sex.

Imogen explores Fiona as if she's a hands-on exhibit in a museum. Fiona is receptive to her touch, her spine curving, which makes her hips dip, and Imogen follows the incline to the inside.

Here, Imogen's hand shakes and her fingers are all thumbs, and instead of stroking Fiona, she's poking her.

"Immy," Fiona scolds, giggling gently. "It's not a juice box."

"You sure about that, Fiones?" Imogen murmurs, mesmerized, her fingers ready, steady, go—slow, this time. "Actually," she muses, savoring the spicy scent of Fiona's arousal, "it's more like a hot tub." She gasps, recalling their mini-house project, Fiona eager to decide on a location for the hot tub installation. "So _that's_ where you put it."

"Immy," Fiona grumbles, hiding her face behind her hands.

"Don't be embarrassed," Imogen coos. "Just be glad I'm not wearing my glasses, or they'd get all steamed up."

Fiona smirks, the blush shading into a flush. Then her head tilts back like a Pez dispenser and her legs open like a pop-up book.

Imogen lets her fingers soak for a while.

Until her curiosity gets the better of her. (It is curiosity, after all, that thrills the cat.)

Imogen ushers her body along Fiona's until she's within gawking distance.

She parts her lips, and then she parts Fiona's and takes it from the top, nuzzling the dark hair down there, a fuzzy swatch of ringlets that curl like the tips of chocolate chips.

They spiral downward, and Imogen follows them to the glazy maze, the color of pink lemonade and the flavor of conversation hearts.

Fiona is all lush lips and liquid lust and Imogen explores, adores the taste, the texture, the experience.

Her tongue flits over Fiona's clit, the nervy nub pink and perky like a candy button.

Fiona hisses and she kisses it, first with her lips and then with her tongue in slow, slick licks.

Fiona isn't making much noise, but when Imogen looks up, she can see that her face is screaming, a quiet riot of visual noise that causes her features to contort beautifully, like a Picasso.

Imogen captures Fiona's release in her head. **State of the art sex**, the caption reads.

She tilts her head against Fiona's thigh, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"It's been a pleasure having you," Imogen murmurs, when Fiona's breathing resumes its regular rhythm.

"The pleasure is all mine."

"Fiones," Imogen grouses. She can practically hear her desire hissing, swishing through her body, like dynamite ready to detonate. "Have a heart."

"I have a heart," Fiona insists. "Yours."

Just when she thinks she's reached her boiling point, Imogen starts to melt.

"Switch with me," Fiona requests.

They reverse rest spots, Imogen heading north and Fiona heading south. Along the way, they get a little peckish, their kisses delaying their travels by at least five minutes.

When her head finally hits the pillow, Imogen is panting and her hips are slanting and she's chanting Fiona's name as if she won't remember it otherwise.

Fiona looks and listens and her eyes say _I love you_ and _I want you_ and _I'm just so sweet on you_. And all of these things are true—especially that last thing, Imogen notes, cherishing the sweet keepsake on her tongue.

Fiona looms over her like a cloud, with Imogen floating on cloud nine below her. She sprinkles Imogen with kisses: tiny, confetti-type touches all over her body.

Fiona's hands cradle her. Imogen loves Fiona's hands: the cozy cushion of her palms, the steady stroke of her fingers.

Imogen sighs, her face embracing a smile as her girlfriend navigates her body, moving in a way that's both graceful and glacial. Even though Imogen is more wound up than that acrobatic monkey from the toy store, whatever speed Fiona's on, she can be on that one, too.

"You're such a globetrotter," Imogen teases as Fiona travels to her breasts, dividing her time between them.

"You can be well-traveled, too," Fiona informs her. "Just quit making all those unnecessary stops."

Imogen giggles. "All right, enough tit-chat. Onward and downward, Miss Coyne."

"Hey, who's the captain of this ship?"

"I am not a ship," Imogen states. "I am a vessel—of knowledge."

"Not carnal knowledge, apparently," Fiona retorts, plopping down between Imogen's legs and propping herself up on her elbows.

Imogen smirks. "I have carnal knowledge of you."

"Whatever," Fiona huffs, and the puffs of her breath, accented with each syllable, come hard against Imogen's sex.

Imogen has nothing to say to that.

There's a charming chuckle, followed by a killer kiss, and Imogen's body roars in response, but Imogen doesn't make a sound. Not because she can't, but because she doesn't need to. She's not so ticklish there anymore, either, her body having acclimated to her girlfriend's touch.

Fiona takes her sweet time, her tongue cruising the creases of Imogen's sex.

Pleasure chugs through Imogen's veins and she strains against the sheets, her back arching as if she's trying to dance under a limbo stick.

Fiona's lips clutch her clit and Imogen's nerves prickle. Her body sizzles with so much sensation, she can taste it sputtering on her tongue: the tang of pineapple with the bang of Pop Rocks.

It shoves her over the edge, her climax coiling around every bone in her body.

_¡Arriba!_ it cheers, sated, elated, and thoroughly conjugated.

Fiona is beside her now, sharing the pillow.

Imogen faces her and kisses her and they huddle in a cuddle.

Her fingers paint a Valentine on Fiona's back, heart on satin, and Fiona shudders and kisses Imogen's neck, the drowsy drape of her hair curling around Imogen's shoulder.

"I love you."

Imogen isn't sure who said it.

But she's positive they both meant it.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

* * *

When Imogen wakes up, there's a light in her eyes.

And she's not exactly happy about it.

"Imogen? Get up. You're going to be tardy."

It's her father's voice she hears, and her father's knock: controlled but consistent from the other side of the door.

Imogen accepts the pair of glasses Fiona passes and sits up. She reads aloud from the clock: "It's 3:30 in the morning."

Fiona shrugs and yawns and stretches her pajama top over her head.

"Imogen, why is this door locked?"

"I'll be right there, Dad!" Imogen crabs.

Fiona puts on part two of her sleep set. "Someone's up bright and surly," she teases.

Imogen sulks. She didn't mean to sound so aggrieved. In fact, she should be relieved that her father didn't have an episode last night.

Fiona crouches in front of the dresser and opens the bottom drawer. The first thing she finds is a black T-shirt. The pink text traveling across the front of it says: **I'm not a lesbian, but my girlfriend is**.

"Gag gift from Eli," Imogen explains, in response to Fiona's raised eyebrows.

Mr. Moreno knocks once more and Fiona selects a different garment from the drawer. She tosses the nightshirt to Imogen, who shimmies into it and shuffles toward the door.

Louis looks at his daughter, who looks right back. The expression in his eyes reminds Imogen of a rundown motel, the kind with the neon **No Vacancy** sign out front, the **No** blinking erratically because it's on the fritz (again) and nobody can fix it because it's beyond repair.

"Why aren't you ready for school?"

_Dad, it's Sunday and it's dark out_,Imogen wants to say, but she knows better than to contradict him. It would only make him more irritable. "Sorry, Dad. I must've overslept. I'll get ready right now."

"Speed it up a little."

She starts to laugh, but the look on her dad's face tells her this is no laughing matter, and she swallows the sound like a bitter pill.

That sound is replaced by another: the clunk of metal against wood. Imogen turns to find Fiona fumbling for her phone.

"Is there someone in there?" Louis demands.

"Dad—"

"Do you have a male in your room?"

"No, Dad, definitely not. It's just Fiona. Well, not _just_ Fiona. I mean—"

"This is not a flophouse, Imogen. Nor is it a bed and breakfast. I expect you to—"

"Louis?" A figure appears behind him. The caretaker.

_Take care to be a little more vigilant, would you?_ Imogen gripes in her head. She might tell her mother about this. The fact that her father needs more help than she's equipped to provide still makes Imogen feel inadequate. Although sometimes, when she isn't feeling spiteful, she feels grateful. Now is not one of those times.

"Let's give Imogen some privacy so she can get ready for school," the caretaker suggests, calm and conciliatory, because it's futile to argue with a person who has dementia. They will always win and they are always right. "We don't want her to be late, do we?"

"Not late," Mr. Moreno says, permitting the caretaker to lead him down the hall and back to his bedroom.

Imogen shuts her door slowly, waiting for his to shut first. She ticks the lock and exhales, low and long. She's not tired now, but she wants to go back to bed.

Imogen pads across the floor, shucking her shirt en route. "You, too," she says.

Fiona nods, her smile slender but tender.

Imogen watches as Fiona undresses. She doesn't want to make love just now, but she does want to be intimate. Imogen kisses her cheek and Fiona glides Imogen's glasses away from her face.

Imogen extinguishes the light and they nuzzle next to each other. This is Imogen's favorite place to be. By Fiona's side, the bright side, the other side of the Coyne.

"What if that happens to me someday?" Imogen whispers, because she feels comfortable talking to Fiona about anything.

Fiona's little finger finds hers, crooks it, hooks it. "I'd take care of you," she says, like it's a no-brainer.

Imogen's breath zigzags in her throat.

"I will always be in love with you," she says.

It's not so much a promise as it is a realization, because when you realize something, you make it real. And once it's real, it stays real.

Fiona doesn't reply, but Imogen sees her eyes fend off tears as her body bends toward Imogen's and her arms wend their way around Imogen's torso.

Imogen's heart hammers happily inside their hardcore hug, until she is no longer able to distinguish Fiona's heartbeat from her own.

* * *

When Imogen wakes up for the second time that morning, she comes to her senses: the smell of sex-scented serenity and the sight of the sweetest face Imogen has ever seen: a face that's genuinely beautiful and beautifully genuine.

"Good morning, my little afterglow-worm," Imogen greets her.

Her girlfriend grins. There's barely any wiggle room between them and yet Fiona's fingers have overcome all manner of obstacles in their pursuit of sappiness.

"Caught you wet-handed," Imogen chirps, snapping her legs shut like a Venus flytrap.

Fiona gasps, naughty masquerading as haughty.

Imogen kisses Fiona's shoulder, and when she looks over it, she sees their mobile phones on the nightstand, stacked one on top of the other. "Look, Fiones. We're cellmates."

Fiona's head swivels. "Do you think they had phone sex?"

"Maybe. But I don't think they had hot sex. That's our thing."

"Hot sex is our thing, huh?"

Imogen nods and nips at Fiona's mouth, then slowly slips her tongue through Fiona's lips.

"Immy, I can't feel my fingers," Fiona mumbles into her mouth.

"I can," Imogen mumbles back. But she likes Fiona too much to keep her trap shut, so she eases her legs open and gives Fiona a taste of freedom.

Imogen grins as she watches Fiona lick the slick sap from her fingers.

Fiona nudges Imogen onto her back, and Imogen purrs as the sweet swirls of Fiona's sex press against hers.

"Imogen?"

Imogen glares at her bedroom door, on the other side of which stands the interrupter of their intercourse.

"Imogen, I'm leaving in five minutes." It's the caretaker. "Your father's in the kitchen."

"Okay," Imogen calls out in response. "We'll be down in a jiffy."

Fiona's expression is neutral, pleasant actually, as she sits up, putting some space between them.

Imogen gasps. In the spotlight of the sun, she can see marks all over Fiona's body: hickey-hued clouds stamped on her skin like a logo.

Imogen recoils. Fiona told her about him, about Bastard Bobby Beckonridge, the boy who mistook Fiona for a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot. The last thing she wants to do is remind her of him.

"They're not bruises, Immy," Fiona says, stroking Imogen's cheek. "They're souvenirs."

Imogen's frown flips like a pancake. And then a thought occurs to her, and her head flips forward. There on her body—everywhere on her body—is her own personal collection of these tokens of affection.

"I look like a short pink giraffe."

"I'd stick my neck out for you," Fiona says, and demonstrates, lips landing on Imogen's nose.

_Bzzzt_! the spark buzzes. Imogen giggles.

"I'm gonna go wash up," Fiona reports, donning her pajamas. "Then I'm going downstairs to make breakfast with your dad."

Imogen puts on her glasses and watches Fiona fix her hair so her souvenirs don't show.

"See you in a jiffy," Fiona teases, prancing out the door.

Imogen approaches her full-length mirror and scans her sans-clothes reflection.

_Fiona Coyne, your marks are definitely not mediocre_.

* * *

The aroma of spinach omelets wafting from the kitchen is overpowered by the sound of raucous laughter, also wafting from the kitchen.

"Don't make me come down there," Imogen threatens, even as she descends the stairs.

Fiona flies out of the kitchen, wearing a little apron and a big grin, and lands at the landing in front of Imogen. "Where else am I supposed to make you come?"

"You cut that out this instant, Miss Behave Yourself," Imogen demands, hands on hips. The hips are hers, but the hands are Fiona's. Imogen nods toward the kitchen. "What's going on in there?"

"Your dad's reenacting the Vitameatavegamin commercial and I'm making the fruit salad," Fiona announces, and bounces.

Imogen eyes her suspiciously. "And you're using forbidden fruit?"

"Imogen, you are the bad apple of my eye," Fiona retorts.

Then she collects Imogen's hand and together they travel to the kitchen.

"Morning, Dad," Imogen chirps.

Her father beams at her. "There's my Imogenius," he cheers, looking tickled to death to see her. "Did you sleep well?"

Imogen nods and smiles and pecks him on the cheek, and she doesn't mention what happened at 3:30 in the morning, because why remind him of something he can't remember? And even if he could, why would he want to?

She follows Fiona around to the other side of the counter, where there's an unattended cluster of grapes sitting beside Fiona's forbidden fruit salad. Imogen abducts the whole bunch, its branches in her clutches. "Dad?"

Mr. Moreno glances up from the stove. "Hmm?" he says, turning the knob until the flame disappears.

"Love you bunches."

Her dad chuckles and her girlfriend giggles.

"Fiones?"

"You love me bunches, too?" Fiona asks.

"No," Imogen answers, plucking a piece of pulpy fruit off a stem. "I was just wondering if you were familiar with The Grapes of Wrath."

"Yeah…" Fiona replies cautiously, as if she doesn't like where this is going.

"What about… the wrath of grapes?" Imogen inquires.

Fiona's eyes expand. "Immy, no."

Right between the "Immy" and the "no," Imogen gets her right between the eyes.

Fiona shrieks.

Imogen shrieks, too, but with laughter instead of terror.

Mr. Moreno grabs a grape and pitches it across the counter, clubbing his daughter on the arm.

Pretty soon, Louis and Imogen are throwing grapes faster than Fiona can pick them up.

"Isn't this a blast, Fiones?"

"Blast off!" Mr. Moreno whoops, and sends a grape soaring.

"It's a bird, it's a plane—"

"It's Super Grape!" Fiona bellows, hurling a handful of them at her girlfriend.

Imogen isn't expecting the onslaught. Grapes bounce off her head, clobber her chest, and whack her in the back. "Whoa, when did you get fun?"

"I am, and always have been, more fun than a barrel of monkeys," Fiona proclaims.

Mr. Moreno chuckles and chucks two grapes, one in each hand, one at each girl. "You know this family has more issues than Burlington Comics?"

"That's right," Imogen crows. "And don't you forget it."

* * *

Imogen's pen patters across the page. Her journal's sitting in her lap, and she's sitting in the lap of luxury.

**I can honestly say that I now know Fiona inside and out.**

Near her shoulder, there's a snicker. Imogen turns her head. "Having a gay old time reading my innermost thoughts, Fiones?" she queries. Her girlfriend's eyes are dark, like the sharps and flats of a piano, and Imogen is tempted to tickle the ivories. "Remember: dirty mind over matter."

On the other hand… they do have some time alone. The Sunday caretaker has taken Mr. Moreno grocery shopping, after Louis said he needed "less tempestuous grapes." This alarmed the caretaker, who assured the professor that sour grapes are not the norm—most of them are mild-mannered.

Fiona kisses the back of Imogen's neck, tugging her top across her shoulder until she's bare there. Imogen winds streamers of Fiona's hair around her finger like bubblegum, while her girlfriend's lips amble along her skin in an imperfect pattern of perfect puckers.

Imogen inhales, drawing Fiona down deep. "You smell sexy," she says, palms rubbing restlessly against Fiona's thighs. "Would you, um, would you be interested in… checking out that sex fabric?"

"I think we'll have better sex without fabric, don't you?"

"I do," she replies, like a blushing bride.

Imogen's imagination pounces, captures, and bolts. But instead of running scared, her mind runs wild. Pretty soon, she stops fantasizing about going down on Fiona, and starts fantasizing about going down on bended knee.

She'll propose on Fiona Coyne Day, and Fiona will accept, of course, because they're lucky the universe brought them together and the very least they could do is stay that way.

Imogen flashes forward to their wedding day: she and Fiona dressed in white, because their love is pure even if their minds are dirty, and Fiona's look will be classic while Imogen's is slightly irregular.

They'll stand at the altar and falter with their vows because they're so deliriously happy, they can't think straight, which is good, because on a queer day, you can see forever.

She's not sure where they'll go on their honeymoon. She'll probably just flip a Coyne and follow Fiona anywhere.

"Would you mind if I spend the rest of my life with you?" Imogen asks. It's not a proposal, but it's not a rhetorical question, either, and it's definitely not a stupid question, because nothing about it feels immature or premature.

"If you must," Fiona says, at once casual and cautious, as if she's afraid of reading too much and too little into the question.

Imogen takes note, inscribing their commitment in her journal with the pink-inked proclamation **Immy + Fiones Forever**. She starts on a heart, then stops and reaches over to her nightstand for the purple and green pens beside the picture frame. She hands the purple pen to Fiona, and they restart their heart, Imogen designing the right half and Fiona designing the left half, until the two halves form a whole.

This is how Imogen loves Fiona—with her whole heart.

Imogen twists her head and sees Fiona's gaze gravitate to their **Forever**, and Imogen knows that Fiona has her heart set on it, too.

Imogen smiles, diving into Fiona's mermaid-blue eyes until she's swimming inside her soul.

She puts pen to paper, but can't remember what she wants to say.

It's not cause for concern—Fiona will handle it.

Fiona knows what she's thinking.

(That sort of thing happens when you're soul mates.)

Fiona collects the green pen and leans forward until her heart bumps Imogen's back and Imogen is wearing Fiona like a coat of paint.

**Well, it's official**, she writes, as the whisper of her breath and the hug of her body make Imogen ache and quake and crumple.

**This girl totes Fi-owns me.**

* * *

Fin.

(Or should I say Fim?)


End file.
